Personal Blogs

"The heaviest burdens, grief that ages the soul, the fatigue of being,

 the weight of remembered loss, often leave no visible trace."

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Yesterday morning I was reading Ernest Hemingway’s A Clean, Well-Lighted Place. In the story, the silence of the night carries more weight than the sparse dialogue exchanged within it. The story centres on a nearly empty café, a late-night ritual, and two waiters, one young and impatient, the other older and attuned to the quiet ache of solitude. And, as with much of Hemingway’s work, it’s in what remains unsaid that the real story unfolds. Beneath the minimalist style lies a meditation on what it means to be alone, to endure, and to cling to slivers of dignity in a world that often turns its gaze elsewhere.

That little café isn’t just a spot to sip brandy; it stands as a kind of sanctuary. Clean and lit against the dark, it offers a reprieve. Not just from the physical night but from the emptiness it represents. Hemingway doesn’t shout this message, but he doesn’t need to. The older waiter, who understands why the old man lingers, becomes more than just a server. He is, in his quiet way, the keeper of this refuge, holding space for those who need somewhere to simply exist.

In a world that rushes past pain, the story gently insists that to keep such places open—to be that source of light, patience, or understanding—is a profound kindness. Turning on the lights and staying a little longer can be an act of mercy.

The younger waiter, eager to leave and puzzled by the old man’s sorrow, reduces suffering to a matter of wealth. “He has plenty of money,” he remarks, as though sadness should come with a price tag. But Hemingway asks us to look deeper. The heaviest burdens—grief that ages the soul, the fatigue of being, the weight of remembered loss—often leave no visible trace.

There’s humility in realizing how little we know of what others carry. The older waiter sees this. He doesn’t try to fix the old man, nor does he turn away. He stays, simply and deliberately, because he understands.

And at the centre of it all is that quiet confrontation with nothingness—what the older waiter names nada. His parody of prayer, hollowed out by repetition and doubt, suggests not just loss of belief, but a yearning for meaning that still lingers. It’s a stark, spiritual moment, laced with irony and pain. But it’s not nihilistic. It’s human.

This is perhaps the story’s most resonant truth: even in a fractured world, where old certainties crumble, the longing for a small light, for something kind and enduring, persists. Hemingway doesn’t pretend to resolve the ache. Instead, he affirms it, elevates it. He shows that in facing the emptiness and choosing to remain compassionate, we shape a quiet resistance—a flicker that matters.

What the older waiter offers is presence. Not answers, not platitudes, just presence. He delays his own rest, keeps the café open a little longer, and in doing so, honours a simple, radical grace. In a culture that prizes speed and resolution, this slow empathy becomes its own kind of faith.

Not in systems or doctrine, but in each other.

Hemingway doesn’t hand us a tidy conclusion. The story ends as it begins—modestly, solemnly. But within its economy of words, it reveals a truth both piercing and gentle: the light we offer one another, however small, is sometimes the only thing that keeps the dark from swallowing everything whole.

"With the ancient is wisdom; and in length of days understanding."

Job12:12 KJV

“Not all chains are iron. Some come in the form of likes, loops, and endless notifications.”

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It begins with the desire to stay awake to what is happening in the world, but then, we analyse our media habits—especially the kind of content I have been watching on YouTube and elsewhere. What started as an interest in staying informed has, without me noticing, turned into something more compulsive. I find myself drawn in by videos that stir the emotions—about the state of the world, moral decline, or political chaos. Some are thoughtful, others more reactionary—but the result is often the same: I come away feeling unsettled, drained, even a little hopeless.

When I was young we had News at Ten on the BBC. Now we have 24 hour news on many channels. On top of that we have debates and controversial interviews. 

Many now stay awake via online platforms. I’ve come to see it for what it is—a kind of addiction. Not to the content itself, but to the emotional charge it gives. The more we consume, the more we are  fed. The algorithms are clever that way, learning quickly how to keep a person hooked. And even though I might tell myself it’s good to stay awake or alert, I’m starting to realize that peace and perspective are being eroded in the process.

So, I’ve decided to change my diet.

I want to be more intentional by limiting my media intake to no more than 30 minutes a day, and choosing content that uplifts, enlightens, or inspires rather than provokes or disturbs. Blogs that build rather than tear down. Voices that breathe life rather than drain it.

It’s not about shutting my eyes to the world. It’s about guarding my heart and mind. I want to be rooted in what is good, not just reactive to what is wrong.

I’m sharing this not as a lecture, but as a confession of sorts. If you’ve ever felt this pull too, you’ll understand. The world is loud right now. And sometimes the most radical thing we can do is turn the volume down and make space for quiet, hope, and trust.

"But the Emperor has nothing at all on," said a little child.

The Emperor’s New Clothes by Hans Christian Andersen.

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To Love the Truth More Than Being Right

There’s something achingly human about the way we cling to our beliefs, even when they’re cracked and imperfect. We argue for them passionately, patching over the holes with whatever scraps of reason we can find. It’s not always because we’re blind to their faults; more often, it’s because we can’t bear what letting go might mean.

Beliefs are more than ideas. They’re the threads of our identity, stitched over years of experience, memory, and relationships. To unravel them is to risk unravelling ourselves. A belief can feel like an heirloom—worn, perhaps, but cherished. To release it may feel like betraying not only who we are, but those who gave it to us.

But it’s not just personal. Beliefs bind us to others, weaving us into families, communities, even nations. Imagine admitting to your closest circle that you’ve begun to doubt something once held sacred. The fear isn’t just of being wrong—it’s of being cast out. Tribalism is a quiet but powerful force, pulling us to defend our shared truths, even when they wound us or silence others.

And then there’s the fear of the unknown. If I loosen my grip on this belief, what will take its place? Will anything? Even a frayed rope can feel safer than the dark chasm below. Certainty, even when flawed, offers comfort. Letting go feels unthinkable—not because the belief is strong, but because we are afraid.

Emotional investment deepens the entrenchment. The longer we’ve believed something, the harder it is to let go. Each argument we’ve made, each conversation where we stood our ground, becomes a brick in a wall we’re now reluctant to dismantle. It’s not just the belief we’re defending—it’s our pride, our past, our story.

This isn’t new. In the Bible, the Pharisees clung tightly to their interpretations of the law. Their rigidity blinded them to the love and grace of the very God they professed to serve. Their defense wasn’t born of ignorance, but of identity. And yet, in contrast, there’s Paul—whose zealous belief in persecuting Christians shattered on the road to Damascus. His transformation reminds us that truth can find us even in our certainty—and that humility makes room for something better.

This is where the tale of The Emperor’s New Clothes speaks so clearly. The emperor, flattered by tailors who wove invisible garments, paraded through the city in nothing but pride. Everyone saw the truth—but no one dared to speak it, for fear of looking foolish. They defended the illusion because the cost of honesty was too high. It took the courage of a child—untainted by fear or pride—to declare what was obvious: “The emperor has no clothes!”

Sometimes we need a childlike honesty to see our beliefs for what they are: not always noble, not always true, but deeply human. And the question is not whether we’ve ever been the emperor—but whether we have the humility to listen when someone dares to speak.

Admitting the flaws in our beliefs isn’t weakness. It’s courage. It’s the courage to acknowledge that the rope we’ve been clinging to may not hold—and to trust the space beyond. It’s the courage to say, “I may have been wrong,” and to welcome the growth that follows.

Letting go doesn’t mean abandoning everything. It means refining what we hold, allowing our beliefs to breathe and mature. Faith, after all, is not static. It’s a living thing—shaped by experience, study, and reflection. The beauty of being human is that we are always in progress. And so are the truths we cling to.

Defending flawed beliefs is not a failure—it’s a sign of how deeply we care. But perhaps the most liberating truth is this: we are not defined by our beliefs alone. We are defined by our willingness to seek truth, to grow, and to love—even when it means letting go of what once felt certain.

And in that surrender, we may discover we haven’t lost ourselves at all—but uncovered something truer, stronger, and more enduring.

If I am only a brain, then all my longings—for meaning, for connection, for eternity—are foolish.

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The older I get, the more precious a quiet conversation becomes. Those unhurried exchanges across a table, or the gentle companionship of someone who truly sees you, feel almost sacred. There is something in these moments that touches a deeper place. A spark. A knowing. But if naturalism is right, if all we are is a bundle of neural firings shaped by evolution and accident, then what exactly is happening in those moments? Are we merely biological machines exchanging electrical signals, our thoughts no more substantial than static?

Naturalism, with its emphasis on material causation, insists that consciousness is an emergent property of the brain. There is no ghost in the machine, no soul behind the eyes. Personhood, in this framework, is an illusion. We are not beings with intrinsic worth, only complex organisms reacting to stimuli. Love becomes a neurological cocktail. Thought becomes a transient storm of electrons. Everything we hold dear—truth, beauty, memory, even our sense of self—dissolves into chemistry.

At first glance, this sounds clinical but harmless. Yet something vital slips through our fingers when we accept it fully. If our interior lives are illusory, if the very "I" who writes and the "you" who reads are nothing but echoes of brain activity, then we are profoundly alone. No true communion can exist between illusions.

It fosters alienation. Not the kind that arises from being misunderstood, but something colder. A sense that, deep down, nothing connects. The self is an epiphenomenon. The other, a projection. Our relationships are convenient illusions, evolved for survival. Love, in this view, is useful but not real. And meaning? That is just another adaptation, a story the brain tells to keep us going.

There is a reason totalitarian regimes have often flirted with this mechanistic view of man. Reduce a person to a function, and you can reassign them, reshape them, or remove them. It is much easier to justify cruelty when there is no soul to harm.

But even the most committed materialist hesitates when their child laughs, or when they hold the hand of a dying friend. In those moments, we all act as if there is something more, some essence that matters. We name our dead. We write poems. We whisper love into silence, hoping it echoes beyond the brain. Why?

Because we know, instinctively, that to be human is to transcend mechanics.

Naturalism may describe the body, but it cannot explain the soul. It has no room for mystery, no vocabulary for wonder. And while it can study the brain’s activity when we fall in love, it cannot account for why love breaks us open or binds us together across time and death.

If I am only a brain, then all my longings—for meaning, for connection, for eternity—are foolish. But if I am more, if there is a spirit in the machine, then perhaps the ache itself is proof of a larger story.

We were not made for wires and neurons alone. We were made to love and be known.

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“People don’t join cults for their darkness; they join for their apparent warmth.”

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I am sorry to hear that you have a family member in a cult. Consider the following statement:  “People don’t join cults for their darkness; they join for their apparent warmth.” That sentence has stayed with me. It explains so much. People join cults because they are offered friendship, belonging, purpose, and a sense of meaning in a confusing world. But over time, many discover something deeply wrong: that the warmth is conditional, the truth is manufactured, and the light is dimming—replaced by fear, guilt, and control.

If you have a family member caught in such a group, you are not alone. And you are not powerless. But the path forward is rarely simple.

Not All Cults Wear Robes

The word cult conjures images of robed figures chanting in basements or predicting the end of the world from mountaintops. But most cults are far subtler. They often operate behind the face of well-organized religion, high-control ministries, or charismatic teachers who say all the right things—at first. They may even appear loving, moral, and diligent in good works. This is what makes it so hard to see what’s going on. It also makes it hard for your loved one to see it, especially when the group appears to be fulfilling legitimate emotional or spiritual needs.

But behind the smiles, many such groups exhibit disturbing patterns: they isolate members from their families, demand total allegiance, manipulate with fear and guilt, and elevate human leaders as unquestionable authorities. Any disagreement is met with suspicion, warnings, or punishment—spiritual and social.

This isn’t how Jesus operated.

Jesus, Not a Human Organisation, Is the Way

In John 14:6, Jesus spoke these piercing words:
“I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.”

Not through an institution. Not through a hierarchy of elders or apostles. Not through a governing body claiming exclusive revelation. Christ did not establish a corporate headquarters to act as mediator. He is the mediator.
As Paul told Timothy: “There is one God and one mediator between God and mankind, the man Christ Jesus” (1 Timothy 2:5).

So when a group claims exclusive access to God through their leaders or demands loyalty to them as proof of loyalty to God, beware. They have replaced Christ with man. They have confused the body of Christ with a brand name. Jesus never required His followers to shun their families, report one another for thought crimes, or suppress their conscience in favour of group conformity.

What Can You Do?

1. Keep the Door Open

Your loved one may not listen now. They may think you're "spiritually blind" or "opposing God's will." But your consistent, quiet presence may be the only genuine love they encounter. Keep the door open. Cults are designed to close every other door—especially family ones. Refuse to let that happen. Don’t argue over doctrine unless they invite it. Instead, focus on your relationship. Remind them they are loved—no matter what.

2. Don't Mirror Their Behaviour

It's tempting to respond in kind—to get angry, or issue ultimatums. Resist that. Show them the difference between the conditional love of a cult and the unconditional love of Christ. Jesus ate with tax collectors and sinners. He never coerced. He invited. Let your attitude echo that invitation.

3. Ask Gentle Questions

People in cults are discouraged from asking questions. You can help reopen that part of their soul. Ask things like:
“Can truth really be afraid of scrutiny?”
“Why do they say Jesus is the mediator, but then insert themselves between you and God?”
“Would Jesus ever ask you to cut off your family?”

Let these questions be seeds. Don’t try to harvest too early.

4. Recognize the Signs

Many cults show common traits:

• Authoritarian leadership: leaders cannot be questioned
• Us-vs-them thinking outsiders are evil or deceived
• Information control: only “approved” materials are permitted
• Fear-based motivation: threats of divine punishment for dissent
• Shunning and excommunication: relationships held hostage
• Inward focus: salvation only within the group

If your family member is exhibiting these or is under pressure to comply or suffer rejection, they are likely in a high-control group.

When They Begin to Wake Up

Many who leave cults do so not because someone convinced them with facts, but because something didn’t sit right in their spirit. They saw hypocrisy. They watched loving friends get expelled. They saw leaders accumulate wealth while members struggled. And when they do leave, they often face deep loss—spiritually, socially, and emotionally.

That’s when they need you most.

You can be the person who doesn’t say “I told you so,” but instead “I’m so glad you’re back.”
You can be the person who helps them find Jesus again—not in the rigid rules of men, but in the freedom of grace, truth, and love.

There Is Always Hope

Cults claim exclusive access to truth, but the real Jesus is not hard to find. He walked dusty roads, touched lepers, and forgave doubters. He told people not to put their trust in men but to follow Him. He never started a club with secret rules. He started a movement of freedom.

Your loved one may still be in darkness. But light, by nature, is patient and persistent. 

Now read John 6:25-59 and ask, “What does God and Jesus require of me?”

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Here I go again about that Hebrew word firgun. It's one of those words you can’t unsee once you know it. It means the joy we feel when we see others happy—not for anything they’ve done for us, not because it benefits us in any way, but just because they’re happy.

My eyes filled with tears last night for someone else’s happiness. Not someone I knew. Not even someone in the same country.

My wife and I were watching YouTube together, and, as algorithms do, it fed me something it knew I’d like: a video of 200 people in a field singing Bruce Springsteen’s Waitin’ on a Sunny Day.

Bruce Springsteen "Waitin' on a sunny day" - Over 200 Belgian musicians play for Bruce Springsteen

There they were, ordinary people singing with unbridled joy, their voices rising into the summer sky like birds that had forgotten what cages were. Something in that moment loosened something in me. When my wife stirred from her dream-slumber, began singing the chorus as sunbeams burst through the blinds. Scotland’s rare sunshine had found us.

But something deeper was happening.

Richard Dawkins, the renowned atheist and evolutionary biologist wrote:

“The universe we observe has precisely the properties we should expect if there is, at bottom, no design, no purpose, no evil, no good, nothing but blind, pitiless indifference.”

This made me pause.

Because if that were true; if the core of reality is truly indifferent, how do we explain firgun?

Why would we be wired to feel joy for someone else’s joy? Why would 200 strangers in another country move me to tears? Why would a wife, half-dreaming, wake up singing a song that connects her heart to mine?

Why do love, empathy, kindness, virtue, and sacrificial acts even exist in such a universe? Why does someone throw themselves in front of a train to save a child they don’t know? Why do we applaud goodness, even when it costs us?

You see, if we are merely the product of mindless evolution, if life is nothing more than survival and replication, then firgun is a liability. Altruism is wasteful. Empathy is inefficient. Kindness is, frankly, irrational.

But we know better. Our souls testify otherwise.

The world may sometimes appear indifferent, even cruel. But these moments—these little sunlit mercies—speak of something deeper. A moral inheritance. A spiritual dimension that no algorithm or formula can quite grasp.

We are not merely atoms and appetites. We are image-bearers of something greater. Something that smiles when we smile, that weeps when we weep. Something, someone, who planted the seeds of firgun in our hearts as evidence that love, not indifference, has the final word.

1 John 4:8 tells us who God is:

“God is love.”

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The Watchmen at the Gates of Dawn

They are shaped like almonds. Not nutritious as, but invaluable for cognition and functionality. I say “they” because we have two. Divided by a great wall, and yet, they share my thoughts.

Deep within the human brain lay the amygdalae. Though humble in size, they carry the weight of our life’s memories as they scan the horizon for anything that can potentially cause harm. They are the emotional watchman at the gate of our consciousness, standing guard in the shadows, alert to threat.

But like any faithful guards, it can be shaped by trauma.

In my own life, the amygdalae have become attuned—some might say over-attuned—to danger. A trauma in childhood trained it to keep the gates sealed tight, to be suspicious of certain tones, glances, and energies. Malice, aggression, hate—these now trigger deep internal signals: retreat, protect, withdraw. And I have listened. Not because I lack courage, but because I have learned, over time, the cost of leaving the gate unguarded to such humans.

The amygdales don’t use language. They speak through bodily sensations—a racing heart, a tight chest, the urge to flee. It remembers what the rational brain forgets. Even when the mind tells us, “You’re safe now,” the watchman may still see the shadows of the past cast over the present.

This is the paradox of being human: that our greatest protectors can also become our prison guards. That what once saved us might now isolate us.

And yet, the brain is not fixed. The amygdalae, like any seasoned gatekeepers, can be retrained. It listens—slowly, cautiously—to love, to safety, to consistency. It can learn to soften its alarms. Through prayer, silence, and the gentle presence of those who mean us no harm, the watchman may one day look out from the gate and find the landscape changed. Not a battlefield, but a garden.

I no longer fault my amygdalae for their vigilance. They have earned their scars. It remembers what I cannot bear to revisit. But I invite it to look again, to watch not only for danger—but for goodness too.

Because being human is not just about surviving the night. It's about learning, eventually, to trust the dawn.

He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High

will abide in the shadow of the Almighty.

I will say to the LORD, “You are my refuge and my fortress,

my God, in whom I trust.”

Psalm 91:1-2 BSB

Inspired by Matthew from The Chosen

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Seen and Loved: A Reflection on Being Different

Inspired by Matthew from The Chosen

My wife and I have been watching The Chosen. Like any portrayal of the life of Jesus, it has its critics—what’s new? But in the quiet moments, in the glances exchanged and the words not said, it offers something beautiful. For me, it’s the character of Matthew who stands out.

Not because he’s portrayed as neurodivergent, although that may be part of it. But because he knows what it’s like to be on the outside looking in. To be met with puzzled looks instead of warm smiles. To be judged not for what you've done, but for who you are—your tone of voice, your silence, your need for order, or your lack of small talk.

How many of us have lived that story?

Some of us carry what the world calls “quirks.” We may speak differently, think differently, organize our lives with a precision that others can’t understand. We may struggle in noisy crowds or with the unspoken rules of social interaction. And in a culture that prizes sameness and speed, it can feel like we’re standing still on the wrong side of the glass.

But what I see in Matthew’s story—and more importantly, in Jesus’ response to him—is something healing. Jesus doesn’t ask Matthew to “tone it down” or fit in. He simply says, Follow me.

He calls the whole person.

And that, to me, is the Gospel in miniature. That God doesn’t just tolerate difference—He chooses it. He sees the order in our minds, the care in our words, the depth behind our silences. He sees the pain of rejection, and the courage it takes to keep showing up. And he calls us anyway.

To those who feel different—neurodivergent, misunderstood, or simply “other”—you are not broken. You are not less than. You are seen, loved, and invited. Just like Matthew.

The world may pass by, misunderstanding what it sees. But Jesus stops. And when he calls your name, he calls all of you—every carefully arranged thought, every stammered word, every quiet strength.

***

But the LORD said to Samuel,

 “Do not consider his appearance or height, for I have rejected him; the LORD does not see as man does. For man sees the outward appearance, but the LORD sees the heart.” I Samuel 16:7

Jesus Calls Matthew the Tax Collector (The Chosen Scene)

"We do not need to explain these long walks to everyone...those who have walked understand: the trail changes you. And once it does, the walk never truly ends."

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It's Time For the Pilgrimage 

There is a mystery to long walks in the world’s grand places. Across continents and cultures, from the dusty paths of the Camino de Santiago to the granite trails of the West Highland Way, Klipspringer Hiking Trail the, Yosemite Grand Travers, the wind-carved coastlines of Norway or Italy and Austria's Alpine regions people set off, boots laced, and packs loaded, with a longing that’s difficult to articulate. It’s more than tourism. More than exercise. The terrain speaks to something deeper. Something ancient.

What drives us to take these long, solitary walks? Why are so many drawn to leave behind the comforts of modern life to trek through mountains, deserts, moorlands, and forests—sometimes for days or even weeks at a time?

The Call of the Wild Places

The natural world has always been the setting for spiritual encounters. Moses met God on a mountain. Jesus fasted in a wilderness. The early Celtic saints sought the thin places—those wild spaces where the veil between heaven and earth seemed worn, transparent. There’s something about vastness and silence that awakens the soul.

When we step into these grand landscapes, we enter a different rhythm. The chatter of daily life falls away, replaced by the whisper of wind through grass, the cry of a bird overhead, the distant rush of water. Walking becomes a kind of prayer—each step a word, each mile a verse in a slow, unfolding psalm.

In such places, God seems nearer, not because He is more present there, but because we are. Our minds settle. Our eyes open. We begin to see not just creation, but the Creator’s imprint on every rock and tree and changing sky.

Stripping Away What Doesn't Matter

Long-distance walking has a humbling effect. It pares life down to essentials: water, rest, food, warmth. We learn the cost of carrying too much, both literally and figuratively. There is a discipline in choosing what to leave behind. In this simplicity, we begin to notice how cluttered our lives have become—how many of our worries are unnecessary, how much noise we live with.

In the walking, we begin to shed more than weight. We shed the versions of ourselves we’ve been holding tightly to: the competent professional, the overachiever, the person always in control. On the trail, we become something more elemental. Human, vulnerable, dependent.

The journey becomes a mirror. With no screens to distract, no tasks to complete, we’re left with ourselves. And it is in this solitude—sometimes uncomfortable, sometimes liberating—that many begin to face long-buried thoughts or griefs. Walking through wildness often becomes a form of healing, because the path doesn’t ask for eloquence or perfection—only honesty and movement.

On Meeting Strangers

Though many set out alone, the trail has a way of bringing people together. There’s something deeply human in meeting someone at a trail marker, sharing a flask of coffee, comparing blisters and stories. These encounters are rarely shallow. Perhaps it’s the shared vulnerability of the walk that opens people up. The miles invite reflection, and reflection seeks expression.

In these fleeting friendships—formed over shared hardship, under starry skies or in stormy weather—we’re reminded of a truth: that life, like the trail, is meant to be walked together, at least in part. There's no need for small talk when both people are tired, sore, and staring into the same majestic landscape. Conversation moves quickly to things that matter.

Finding the Self You Lost

The great paradox of pilgrimage is that it often begins with a desire to escape but ends in rediscovery. We go to get away from the demands and routines of life, but in doing so we encounter a version of ourselves we had forgotten.

Out in the open, stripped of pretence, we meet the child who once loved stars, the soul who still dreams, the person who prays not in words but in wonder. Somewhere between the first mile and the final descent, we recover what the noise and pace of life had eroded: a sense of direction, of calling, of hope.

The road does not give answers easily. But it shapes us. It teaches patience. It demands perseverance. It opens the door to awe. And awe, I believe, is the beginning of wisdom.

The Ongoing Journey

There’s a reason why, after the walk is done, so many return home changed. Not always in ways visible to others—but changed, nonetheless. They carry in their memory the scent of pine, the shimmer of dawn mist, the silence of ridgelines, the sound of their own heartbeat in remote places. They carry a renewed sense that life is not just a list of obligations, but a path.

The world’s grand places—its mountain paths and coastal ways, its desert trails and forest roads—call us not just to see beauty, but to remember what it means to be human. To walk with purpose. To endure with grace. To feel small and yet known.

We do not need to explain these long walks to everyone. Some things are better understood with the feet than with the tongue. But those who have walked understand: the trail changes you. And once it does, the walk never truly ends.

****

A memorable encounter on a quiet pathway never forgotten

They asked each other, “Were not our hearts burning within us as He spoke with us on the road and opened the Scriptures to us?” 

Luke 14 (BSB).

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"The soul should always stand ajar..."

— Emily Dickinson 

One summer afternoon, my wife and I found ourselves wandering through the heart of Edinburgh. The city was alive—the Edinburgh International Festival in full swing—its streets a river of faces, music, and colour. As we strolled along The Royal Mile, weaving through the crowds, I glanced around at the endless tide of people and turned to my wife.

"It's strange," I said, "but we're connected, somehow, to everyone here."

I was thinking about the old idea of six degrees of separation—the notion that, at most, six social connections link any two people on Earth. It first caught public imagination back in 1929, when Hungarian writer Frigyes Karinthy penned a short story exploring the theory.

But our connection to strangers, I realised, isn't just about having some ancient Celt in our family tree, waving a claymore across the misty glens. It’s something closer, more immediate. The idea that through friends, colleagues, or even a neighbour's brother-in-law, we are just a few steps away from anyone on the planet.

And sometimes life offers moments that make you believe it.

2008: An Auspicious Coincidence

It was during the depths of the British recession. I had flown to Krakow, Poland—my first time there—with the heavy purpose of visiting Auschwitz. One evening, sitting in a bustling square, I shared a meal with some friends, the laughter and chatter of other diners surrounding us like a low tide.

Across the way, I noticed a young man—maybe 22—stealing glances at me. He watched, hesitated, and finally stood up, slipping on his jacket. As he made to leave, he veered toward me, almost awkwardly.

"Excuse me," he said. "Did you give a lecture in the Scotland about young people in crisis?"

I blinked, surprised. "Yes," I said. "How on earth do you know that?"

He smiled and explained: he had a copy of the lecture on CD, passed to him by a friend of a friend.

"It was your voice," he said. "I recognised your voice."

Six degrees of separation? Sometimes, it feels like only one.

In 2011, Facebook researchers analysed the entire network of Facebook users — over 700 million people at the time — and found that the average separation between any two users was only 4.74 degrees. That’s even closer than the original theory suggested! It was living proof, using modern data, that the world really is incredibly connected.

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The more afraid someone is of being vulnerable, 

the more likely they are to crave power to protect themselves.

As a Christian, I find my mind increasingly troubled, caught between a faith rooted in Christ’s simplicity and a world of religious institutions that elevate men to positions that seem perilously close to divine authority. What was meant to offer sanctuary often unsettles my soul instead. These systems, while proclaiming themselves divinely inspired, assert possession of “the truth,” yet over time they reveal a disquieting instability: doctrines shift, policies mutate, the certainties they once insisted upon are revised or abandoned altogether. For a faith founded on eternal constancy, such wavering is a source of deep spiritual anguish.

The voice of Jesus, however, cuts through the noise with unwavering clarity. I hear His words like a balm: Ephesians 2:18 — “For through him we both have our access in one Spirit to the Father.” Access not mediated by man, not rationed out by councils or congregations, but granted directly through the Son. No hierarchy. No gatekeepers. Just the open arms of the Father.

And yet, this pure truth collides painfully with the systems that call themselves "Christian." How can one be "God-inspired" when the truths declared today contradict the convictions of yesterday? The inconsistency rattles my conscience. It feels not like the sure hand of God but like the restless reshaping of human hands hands that are ever building, ever altering, ever grasping.

I struggle especially with the triangular power structures so often found: a narrow summit crowded by men who demand obedience, beneath which the faithful are organized in descending ranks. It is a vision of authority that seems so far removed from the Servant-King who knelt to wash feet. These leaders, in claiming a special insight into the will of God, all too often position themselves between the believer and the Father, a role Christ alone was meant to fill. Instead of nurturing a personal relationship with God, such systems seem designed to tether believers to the institution itself, binding them with obligations of loyalty and conformity.

Nowhere is the fracture more visible than in the practices of disfellowshipping, excommunication, and shunning. I have seen the devastation first-hand: families torn, lifelong friendships shattered, hearts broken, not because of rebellion against Christ, but because of a refusal to conform to human interpretations. To see love wither under the weight of institutional control wounds me more deeply than words can say.

I cannot help but think of the Pharisees whom Jesus rebuked — men who, under the guise of devotion, twisted God’s law into heavy burdens. Jesus did not condemn their desire for righteousness but their blindness to love. And now, I see the same spirit alive: a fierce preservation of order at the expense of mercy, a clinging to image over compassion.

Even worse, some of these institutions, in their desperation to protect themselves, have hidden grievous wrongs. Stories of abuse, concealment, and silence abound, revealing a chilling truth: when survival of the organization becomes the highest aim, Christ’s call to love the least of these is drowned out.

Despite this, my heart remains tender. I do not look down on those who remain within these structures. I understand the longing for belonging, for certainty, for a place to anchor one’s soul. Many within are sincere, seeking God with all they have. I love them — they are my brothers and sisters, fellow wanderers in search of home.

But I cannot quiet the deep, persistent voice within me — a voice that whispers of another way. A way free from the heavy scaffolding of human authority. A way rooted in Christ alone. A way where love is not subject to committees, and access to the Father is not doled out as a reward for obedience.

In the end, all the shifting doctrines, all the changing policies, all the clamour of human systems fall away before the simple, unchanging truth:
Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life.
No institution, no council, no leader can stand in His place. Through Him alone, I have access to the Father.
And through that access, I find peace.

Joy was a “desire that is itself more desirable than any satisfaction.”

“You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it rests in you.”

— Augustine, Confessions

There is an ache that follows us, quietly persistent. We feel it in the stillness after the music fades, in the let down that follows even our happiest moments, in the silence after a longed-for dream has been realised, and still, something is missing. Some try to fill it with materialism, the new car, the new house, sex, travel and other forms of temporary pleasures that create that dopamine lift that quickly fades.

Augustine named this ache centuries ago. It is the restlessness of the soul made for another world.

Augustine’s confession is not just personal it's universal. Every human life is lived in pursuit of something that seems always just out of reach. The ancient philosopher Blaise Pascal described it as a “God-shaped vacuum” in the heart of every man, something no created thing can fill. We attempt to plug it with distractions, with ambition, with relationships, with causes, but none last. They flicker, and the ache returns.

C.S. Lewis, perhaps our greatest modern apologist of longing, called this ache Joy, but not joy in the way we commonly speak of it. For Lewis, Joy was a “desire that is itself more desirable than any satisfaction.” It came unbidden, in glimpses—a shaft of sunlight in the woods, a half-remembered song, the smell of autumn leaves—and vanished before it could be captured. It was not the thing itself, but the signpost toward it. Lewis came to believe that Joy was evidence not of delusion, but of design. “If I find in myself desires which nothing in this world can satisfy,” he wrote, “the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world.”

Augustine, Pascal, and Lewis all agree on something essential: we are creatures with eternity planted in our hearts. We bear the imprint of a home we have never fully seen but somehow remember. We are like exiles, living with a homesickness that nothing here can cure. And this is not weakness—it is revelation.

The modern world tells us to silence this restlessness. It offers distractions, consumerism, achievement, digital escapism. But Christianity dares to say: no, listen to it. That ache is not the problem; it is the pointer. Like hunger points to food, and thirst to water, so longing points to God.

Pascal wrote that the infinite abyss within us “can only be filled by an infinite and immutable object; in other words, by God himself.” Not ideas about God. Not religion for its own sake. But God, personal, relational, knowable.

This is the essence of apologetics not as argument, but as invitation. We do not only offer evidence for God's existence; we invite weary souls to come home. The restless heart, the sudden Joy, the persistent yearning—these are whispers of the divine calling us to return. As Augustine put it, “Late have I loved you, beauty so old and so new.”

To speak of God, then, is to speak not just of theology, but of homecoming—of the One in whom every longing finds its end, and every wandering heart, its rest.

"God did this so that they would seek him and perhaps reach out for him and find him, though he is not far from any one of us.." — Acts 17:27 (BSB).

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